


An Intern's Ordeal

by ephemeralstark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Gen, Happy Hogan is a Good Bro, Hurt Peter Parker, Peter Can't Have Coffee, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter is a Little Shit, Protective Happy Hogan, Protective Tony Stark, Stabbing, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstark/pseuds/ephemeralstark
Summary: Peter gets invited to the Annual Stark Charity Gala, only he thinks he's attending as an intern and panics because he doesn't even know how to make coffee so how can he manage an actualevent. Throw in a stab wound, some fractured ribs, a healthy dose of self-deprecation and a case of mistaken identity, and Tony realises that Peter really doesn't understand how much he means to him.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 25
Kudos: 413





	An Intern's Ordeal

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is pretty long, I hope you enjoy, there's a lot going on.

“You know,” Peter commented idly as he set down the wrench Mr. Stark had handed him on the table, “when you said you wanted me to come over and help out in the workshop, this wasn't exactly what I thought you’d have planned.” 

“No?” Mr. Stark wondered as he held out a hand for the weird caps Peter was still tightly gripping after being warned not to lose them, “what did you think we were going to do?” 

“I don’t know, really,” Peter shrugged dismissively, “but I kinda thought it would be something to do with Spider-Man.” 

“Spider-Man?” Mr. Stark spoke as though he had forgotten who Spider-Man was, as though he wasn't sitting in the same room as him, before cursing slightly under his breath and dropping one of the caps.

“Yeah, you know? The red and blue guy who swings over the city on webs that he made himself because he’s so totally cool and smart.” 

“I know who Spider-Man is, kid,” Mr. Stark said rolling his eyes at Peter, “can you grab that wrench again? Then get down here, it’s your turn to do a bit of work.” 

“Well, I’m just saying you sounded a bit confused,” Peter said as he jumped off his stool and crouched by the engine on the floor, the smell of motor oil and grease making his head spin a little, he blamed his enhanced sense of smell for that as he other man didn't seem to be affected by it.

“Not about Spider-Man,” Mr. Stark corrected him, before frowning and giving Peter a serious look, “Pete, do you think I only keep you around because of your abilities?” 

“Uh,” Peter faltered, unable to find the words to explain how he did think that but not in a way that made Mr. Stark seem like a bad guy, just in a way that proved Peter wasn't any more special than the next intern who passed through the halls of Stark Industries. 

A look of understanding seemed to cross Mr. Stark’s face and before Peter could even open his mouth he continued to speak, “hey, actually, how would you feel about coming to this charity Gala on Saturday?” 

“Wh- wait, what?” 

That… had been the last thing Peter expected Mr. Stark to say, why would he invite him to a  _ Gala _ ? Didn't he realise that Peter was probably the last person in the world who should be invited to a fancy event - in fact, he wasn't entirely sure he owned a suit, would that be an issue? Maybe he could borrow that one of Ben’s he wore to Homecoming. 

“Charity Gala,” Mr. Stark repeated, “it's a big event with suits, ties, dresses, and champagne; lots and lots of champagne, not that you’re allowed to drink that, but as Stark Industries is the organiser of the even then I can make sure we have plenty of soda. So, what’s your favourite: Coke, Pepsi, Dr Pepper, Sprite, Fanta…” 

“Uh, I don't- I don't know,” Peter stammered, “just whatever you want is fine with me.” 

“Come on, Kiddo, I want to make this enjoyable for my favourite intern, so what’s your drink of choice?” 

“Uh, Dr Pepper, maybe?” Peter said unsurely. 

“You got it,” Mr. Stark said, “now come on, get your head in the game, we need to rebuild this engine.” 

“Why are we doing this?” Peter wondered, still feeling slightly confused by the conversation that had just occurred, he felt like there was a deeper meaning to it.

“By the time I was your age, I’d lost count of the number of engines I’d rebuilt, this is a young genius’ rite of passage.” 

_ I’m not a genius,  _ Peter thought to himself but instead of voicing the thought aloud, he focused his attention on the task at hand. Or, he tried to, at least, the truth was that he was slightly caught up on Mr. Stark’s comment about wanting his favourite intern at the Charity Gala. 

Was that his way of saying that he wasn't keeping Peter around because of his Spider-Man abilities, but rather because of his status as a Stark Industries intern? But that couldn't be right, Peter wasn't even a  _ good _ intern - he usually just fiddled around in the workshop and tried to improve his Spider-Man equipment before attempting to eat Mr. Stark out of house and home. So, why wouldn't he take a better intern to the Gala? And what exactly would be expected of Peter on Saturday? 

“Kid?” Mr. Stark poked Peter’s arm making him jump in shock and his head snapped to the side to see his mentor staring at him with a slightly concerned expression, “you good? You’re off in your own world tonight, I’m starting to get a little worried and you know me; I don’t like to be worried, I like to be blase in most situations.” 

“I’m yeah, I’m good, don’t worry,” Peter lied, “I was just thinking about this US History project I’ve got to hand in soon.” 

“History?” Mr. Stark muttered, screwing up his nose in disgust, “you go to a STEM school, right? Shouldn't they be focusing on the sciences more than  _ history?”  _

“Well, you know how it is,” Peter muttered with a shrug, “those who are ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it, and I suppose they have to give us a rounded education.” 

Mr. Stark cast him a dubious glance, “you sure that’s the saying, Bud?” 

“Well, it’s close, I think,” Peter mumbled, “anyways, I like history, I don't think it’s something I’ll pursue as a career but the class is interesting enough.” 

“A career?” Mr. Stark asked jerking back in shock, “in history?”

“Not for me,” Peter repeated, “I don’t know, I’ll probably go into research or scientific development or something, I haven't thought about it in too much detail, to be honest.” 

“You haven't- Kid, what? You should absolutely be thinking about this,” Mr. Stark said, “I know I’ve mentioned this before but I do have some pull at MIT. In fact, I have some pull at almost every college out there, you name it and I could probably get you in. What can I say? People love me.” 

“I just don't want to make a life-changing decision at fifteen,” Peter muttered, “I know I’m going to have to soon, but do you know how much people change and grow? I asked May and she said she’s nothing like the person she was as a teenager, so if that’s going to be the same for me, how do I know that I’ll choose the right career at this point in my life, I’d rather take the time and make that decision.” 

“Alright,” Mr. Stark said, “as much as I’d love to put you through college and have you working full time at Stark Industries, I can understand why you feel that way and it’s quite a mature observation - even though I hate it.” 

“You’d want me working here?” Peter asked with wide eyes. 

“Of course, you’re my favourite intern after all,” Mr. Stark said with what Peter was sure was meant to be a teasing grin, but all he could think about was the swooping in his stomach as those words were repeated. ‘Favorite intern’ was that Mr. Stark’s way of saying he was going to have to act like an intern at the Charity Gala?

He instantly began to feel nauseous, Mr. Stark was dropping hints about the intern thing which meant that he was  _ absolutely  _ expecting Peter to be on the ball at the Gala and he was only used to messing around in the lab. In fact, Peter was fairly sure that he’d never done anything intern-like; Mr. Stark had once asked Peter to turn on the coffee machine and Peter had merely shrugged, shoved a handful of sour patch kids in his mouth, and admitted that he had no idea how to make coffee. 

So really, Peter had never done an intern’s job, he was going into this completely blind. 

“Peter?” Mr. Stark prompted, “are you alright? Was that too much?” 

“I’m fine,” Peter said quickly, as he lurched to his feet, “I just really gotta go and… work on that project.” 

Peter stumbled over the toolbox on the floor, a testament to his distraction as his Spidey-Sense would have usually warned him of such obstructions, and grabbed his backpack off the ground. 

“Peter, wait-” 

But Peter didn't wait, or even hang around outside the door to the workshop to listen to the end of Mr. Stark’s sentence, he ran.  _ Like a coward,  _ his mind supplied. 

He wasn't a coward, he was just… scared that Mr. Stark was going to expect more of him than he was able to give, he didn't know how to be an intern, so really, was it any surprise that no one at school believed him? Ned probably would have eventually lost his trust in Peter after a while if it wasn't for the discovery that he was Spider-Man. 

Peter made his way upwards to the roof, instead of towards the main exit, slipping his web-shooters on over his wrists in preparation to swing home. 

_ “Peter, Boss has requested that I ask you to stay, at least for ten minutes,”  _ F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, which of course shouldn't have been a surprise considering she was everywhere in the building - except the bathrooms. 

“I can’t,” Peter said, guilt gnawing at his stomach as he spoke, “tell him that I’m sorry for rushing out, and it wasn't anything he said-” that was a lie but Mr. Stark didn't need to feel guilty about expecting Peter to do his job “-and maybe just say I’ll see him on Saturday, although if wants to he could text me the details?” 

_ “I’ll pass that along,”  _ F.R.I.D.A.Y. said gently, or as gently as a robotic voice could sound,  _ “take care Peter, don't forget your mask and swing safely.”  _

“Thanks, F.R.I.,” he mumbled as the doors to the roof slid open and Peter breathed in the cool NYC evening air.

Taking note of her advice, he pulled his Spider-Man mask out of his backpack and pulled it over his head, he didn't bother changing fully into his suit, he was only going home - he had no plans to stop and fight any crimes. 

_ “Good evening, Peter, I heard from F.R.I.D.A.Y. that you were distressed, how are you now?”  _ Karen greeted him instantly. 

“Of course you did,” Peter muttered, “I’m fine, don't worry, but can I ask you something?” 

_ “You just did, but of course I am your A.I. system therefore you can ask me as many questions as you’d like,”  _ Karen told him. 

“Alright,” Peter mumbled, rolling his eyes behind the mask as he wondered whether she had been programmed to respond with that whenever he asked if he could ask a question, “uh, so theoretically if I asked you some questions would you have to tell Mr. Stark what I asked you?” 

_ “No, he only has override codes in case of an emergency, but I was designed to be yours alone and that must come with some degree of trust.”  _

“Right,” Peter said, trying to process her words as he launched himself off the side of Stark Tower and felt the cold wind make his clothes flap in the breeze, his stomach swooped with the familiar, intoxicating fear of falling and he felt himself immediately perk up with the adrenaline rush. 

He waited until he could make out the shocked expressions of the people on the street before he shot a web, feeling the familiar tug on his arms as his fall was broken and he swung in an upwards arc - it felt like he was on a rollercoaster and he couldn't deny that he loved every moment of it. 

He had almost lost himself in the comforting thwips of web-slinging and the soothing breeze when Karen spoke up once more and reminded him of his concerns. 

_ “Did you want to ask me anything else?”  _ she prompted. 

“Uh, yeah,” Peter mumbled, “what would an intern typically wear to a Stark Industries Charity Gala?” 

_ “Mr. Stark doesn't typically take interns to his Galas,”  _ Karen informed him,  _ “however, I know that you’re asking this because you were invited this Saturday, therefore why don't you just wear formal attire.”  _

“How did you know that?” Peter asked in a moment of paranoia. 

_ “I am connected to Tony Stark’s personal server which is the same server as F.R.I.D.A.Y. and she has the finalised guest list for the Gala which includes your name.”  _

“Is there anything else there about me?” Peter wondered, “besides my name, that is?” 

_ “Unlimited access.”  _

“Unlimited because I’m an intern, right?” Peter asked, “I have to be able to do what Mr. Stark needs during the Gala?” 

_ “I don't follow your line of questioning,”  _ Karen said. 

“Yeah, no,” Peter mumbled, “I didn't really follow that either. How about this: what does an intern typically do?” 

_ “I need more context,”  _ Karen said,  _ “the job role of an intern depends on who they intern for.”  _

“Alright, what does an S.I. intern do?” Peter corrected. 

_ “In which department?”  _

“Mr. Stark’s personal intern, what would be expected of that person?” 

_ “The only person to ever fill that role is yourself, therefore I’m afraid that’s only a question you can answer as it was never an official post therefore I can’t source any information from a job application.”  _

“So,” Peter said slowly as he swung, “you’re telling me that only I know the answer to the thing I don't know?” 

_ “Exactly.”  _

“Great,” Peter mumbled, shaking his head to himself.

So basically he was the only person who had ever interned for Mr. Stark, which made sense, after all, Mr. Stark had always had Miss. Potts with him, she had been his assistant before she had taken over everything, therefore why would he need interns? If anything, Miss. Potts was probably the one who had interns, so what if Peter asked her? 

No. 

That wouldn't work, she and him hadn't seen each other a ton and if he went up to her and started asking weird questions she would either assume that he was looking for money or she’d grow suspicious and tell Mr. Stark about him questioning her. 

So, he was essentially lost. There didn't seem to be any clear answer about how to be a good intern for Mr. Stark or what would be expected of him on Saturday. To be fair he should have expected this to be harder than expected, his mentor wasn't one to play by the rules and why should this situation be any different? 

_ “Are you alright?”  _ Karen asked,  _ “you’re acting strange tonight, your behaviour is sparking concern.”  _

“I’m fine,” Peter lied, “just worried about this project thing I have to prepare for school next week.” 

_ “You know, I am connected to a great deal of information, if you need help with a project, you can always ask me,”  _ Karen reminded him. 

“Yeah, K, I know,” Peter murmured, “I just need to think, alright? I’m fine, I just need some time to myself.” 

_ “Noted.”  _

And with that, she fell silent, finally, and Peter was left to his thoughts and worries. Which he had absolutely planned to do, except a piercing scream breaking through the night distracted him from himself. 

“No, no, please, my husband’s medication is in that bag!” A woman shouted, sounding panicked, “please, no, he has seizures and if you take his meds he will be in danger and my money is in there too, I can’t buy more pills.” 

Peter immediately changed his trajectory,  _ so much for not getting involved in anything, I probably should have put the whole Spidey-Suit on,  _ he thought to himself as his hearing honed in on the desperate sobs coming from an alleyway. 

The scene that met Peter in the alleyway made his blood boil and he felt himself gritting his teeth without meaning to; a lady who looked to be in her late seventies was clutching at her handbag as though her life depended on it, although judging by what Peter had previously heard, her husband’s did. The thief was tugging sharply and slashing the air between them with a sharp blade, he didn't seem to be trying to stab her, but he wasn't exactly being careful. 

“Hey!” Peter shouted, successfully distracting the thief who seemed to jump out of his skin and let go of the lady’s handbag on impulse. 

“Spidey?” the man asked, looking over Peter’s clothes with a confused frown which reminded Peter that he was wearing an incredibly dorky science T-Shirt with an amazing science pun on it, he would probably have to bin the shirt now, or at the very least retire it for a year or so. 

“Stealing a lady’s handbag?” Peter asked, not needing to put much effort into proving that he was disappointed in the guy, “really man? That’s low, especially when she’s told you her husband’s very important medications are in there.” 

“No one asked you, beat it!” 

“I can’t do that,” Peter said, “I’m going to have to insist that you walk away, maybe if you go in the opposite direction I won’t knock you out and call the police.” 

Alright, so maybe that was a lie and Peter was planning to web the guy up and call the cops no matter what he decided. 

“Oh, fuck off,” the man muttered. 

“Hey!” Peter shouted, “language!” 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the thief snapped, forgetting about the lady and her handbag in order to focus his attention on Peter. 

He made a quick hand motion to the lady to run, and thankfully she didn't need to be told twice as she instantly broke into a hasty trot away, her heels clicking on the concrete but the thief didn't seem to care, his attention was solely on Peter and the blade in his hands was no longer being held loosely, now it was poised to attack. 

“Woah, dude!” Peter muttered, holding his hands up as he backed off a few steps, “I take it back, you can use whatever language you want.” 

“Why couldn't you just keep swinging?” the man asked as he took a couple of calculated steps forward, “I had this all under control, why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to get involved?” 

“You were stealing that lady’s handbag,” Peter said, “and her husband’s medication, there’s nothing about that situation that is controlled.” 

“It was for me, alright?” the man screamed. 

_ Uh oh,  _ Peter thought, from experience he had realised that when people were overly emotional, they became unpredictable. This man was armed and seemed desperate.

That was something that Peter occasionally struggled with; he was out almost every night as Spider-Man and often he stopped people who weren't truly bad but they were just in a difficult situation. Did that make him a bad person? Some of those ‘criminals’ were potentially only trying to scrounge money to feed their families. 

He couldn't think like that though because if he started excusing some people’s bad actions and condemning others’, where did he draw the line? Spider-Man was the person who looked out for the little guy, he stopped crime, he didn't take statements and decide who was guilty or whose actions were justified. If someone did something wrong then he would stop them and that was that. 

“Look, I get you think you have your reasons for this, but it's wrong,” Peter said, “why don't you put the knife away, and maybe we can sort this out without anyone getting hurt?”

“You-” the man broke off, seemingly too angry to form a coherent sentence, instead he lunged forward, knife in hand. 

Peter hadn't been expecting that reaction, he had hoped the man would have been willing to compromise. In a desperate attempt to avoid being impaled on the guy’s blade, Peter forced himself through the air and he hit the ground with a thud, feeling as though something in the side of his chest had cracked. 

“Ouch,” Peter muttered, trying to ignore the whine he could hear in his own voice, he was meant to be the tough hero who fended for those who couldn't fend for themselves, “hey, man, that was seriously not cool.” 

“Shut the fuck up!” 

The man lunged at him again, still holding the knife, and Peter skittered backward like a crab until his back came up against a hard, metal surface: oh, the dumpster. He desperately needed to get back up on his feet, he was at a serious disadvantage. 

His Spidey-Sense thrummed in alarm and he whirled around just in time to see the moonlight glint off the blade that was flying towards his face - this guy was aiming to kill! In a last-minute, desperate attempt, he pushed himself downwards so that the guy stabbed into the dumpster instead of Peter’s face, the blade cutting through the metal as though it were butter. 

“Dude, what the hell?” Peter gasped out from his place, flat on his back on the damp alleyway ground. 

“Stop moving,” the man grunted as he swung again. 

“What?” Peter asked, “no!” 

Why would he do the one thing that would mean certain death? Sure, he put on a spandex suit on a nightly basis and swung around the city at dizzying heights, but he didn't have a death wish. Besides, his suit had a certain degree of shock absorption ability, and it was cut-proof, which didn't always prevent Peter from getting hurt, but it definitely took away the brunt of his injuries.

Except he wasn't wearing his suit currently… 

He was very much just Peter Parker in a mask, although he did have his web-shooters. His web-shooters! Just as the guy lifted the blade, with two hands, looking as though he was ready to perform a sacrifice, Peter shot a web upwards and pulled himself out from certain death. 

As he flew upwards he felt the man strike one last time, and in his desperation, he succeeded. Pain radiated through Peter as the blade embedded in his thigh and was dragged downwards as Peter’s body moved up.

“Ah!” Peter called out in agony, the man below in the alley laughed in victory. 

“Got the little bastard!” The man cheered as he started to run. 

Peter wanted to chase after him, web him up and make sure that he would never hurt another person ever, but he was smart enough to know that with the current state of his leg, he wasn't going to be chasing anyone. 

“Karen? You there?” Peter asked, despite knowing that she never went anywhere. 

_ “I’m here,”  _ she confirmed,  _ “I know you needed time to think, but I would seriously recommend seeking medical attention, you have a large laceration down your right thigh.”  _

“I’m aware,” Peter said dryly, or tried to, his humour was shadowed by the pain that was coursing through him. 

_ “I can contact Mr. Stark if you would like?”  _ she offered, and normally Peter would have said yes, he would have felt relief at the thought of his mentor coming to pick him up from the cold rooftop and taking him back to the tower where he would receive decent pain relief and have his wound cared for immediately. 

But, he couldn't say yes, because he had run out in such a strange way that the next time he saw Mr. Stark the man would undoubtedly have more questions than Peter was ready to answer. 

“No,” he said slowly, “but thanks, Karen, actually though… could you just alert the police to that guy, I don't care what you tell them, just make sure he can't hurt anyone else, please?” 

_ “Consider it done,”  _ she said. 

Peter let out a breath of relief that he hadn't even realised he’d been holding. It was going to be alright, the cops would pick up the guy before he hurt anyone else, that lady would probably be at home with her husband by now and he could go home and patch himself up before he started to research further into interning at a fancy Gala. 

Or, that had been the plan. 

By the time he made it home, the sun was beginning to reappear in the sky and he could hear the sounds of the city waking up for another day. 

_ It's a good thing May was on the nightshift,  _ Peter thought to himself as his apartment block finally came into view. 

His jeans were no longer blue, but rather a strange brownish red with the effect of a mixture of dried and still flowing blood. His blood. It wasn't often he ended up covered in his  _ own  _ blood, but these things happened he supposed. 

Taking advantage of the last hour or so of dim light, he carefully crawled up the side of the building, doing his best to make sure there wasn't a blood trail leading up to his window - he wouldn't be able to explain that one away easily. 

_ “You have a text from Mr. Stark,”  _ Karen informed him. 

“Oh…” Peter mumbled and he painfully crawled through his bedroom window and let his body fall to the carpet with a thump, “what does it say?” 

_ “One message from Tony Stark, sent two minutes ago: hey Kiddo! I’m not really sure what happened back there, maybe I overstepped by bringing up colleges and working with me, or maybe you’re more interested in Oscorp - although I don't know why didn't you hear about their animal experimentation scandal? Probably not a good time for jokes, but let me know you’re alright, ok? I saw that Karen has been active all night, so try and get some sleep and just know that I’m not mad at all… I’m just a little confused, but there's no pressure here for you to explain what was up. “ _

“Do you think I upset him?” Peter asked his A.I. carefully as he lay on his bedroom floor, probably creating a mess of blood that he would be forced to scrub at later. 

_ “I like to think he was honest in the message, I believe he is just confused.”  _

“It’s stupid,” Peter mumbled, “like, I shouldn't have freaked out, it was so dumb of me.” 

_ “Would you like to talk about it?”  _ Karen offered.

“Uh, maybe?” Peter said, “I could keep the mask on while I clean this leg up.” 

_ “Sounds good,”  _ and if Peter wasn't mistaken, her voice sounded gentle and reassuring, he was lucky that she was a computer program and didn't tire of him, or need to sleep. 

So, Peter carefully pulled himself back to his feet, crying out in agony as soon as he put weight on his bad leg. If the thought of trying to stand once more didn't fill him with dread, he would have crumbled instantly. 

“Shit,” he muttered, he wasn't one for regularly cursing but all things considered he felt the situation called for it, and there was no one around to hear, except Karen. 

He made his way slowly to the bathroom, dragging his leg rather than stepping to try and reduce the amount of muscle movement, not that it mattered, the blood still oozed out and the tearing sensation still made him feel nauseated. 

“I’m going to have so much blood to clean up before May comes home,” Peter whined to Karen as he pushed open the bathroom door, leaving a red smear behind. 

_ “Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark for you? He can hire a cleaning company,”  _ Karen offered.

“A… cleaning company?” Peter asked, feeling ill at the thought, and not just from the pain he was in, “no, no that’s fine, thanks though.” 

He and May weren't  _ poor _ per se, but they didn't often have an abundance of money to spare, and the thought of paying someone to come and clean their little apartment, when that money could have been used for gas or food, made Peter feel ill. He already caused their food bill to skyrocket thanks to his enhanced metabolism.

Peter sat down heavily on the side of the bathtub, letting the bright lights hurt his eyes momentarily. 

“Karen?” 

_ “Yes, Peter?” _

“I didn't run out on Mr. Stark because I was upset that he had brought up college or offered me a position at Stark Industries,” Peter admitted, “I mean, it was a bit of a shock, and I know I’m going to have to decide what I want to do with my life soon enough because I can’t live in limbo until I know for sure, but yeah, working with Mr. Stark is the dream.”

_ “So why did you leave?”  _ Karen asked. 

“He asked me to go to the Charity Gala,” Peter said.

_ “That’s a bad thing?”  _

“No, no, no, not for a normal intern,” Peter admitted, “but for me, yeah, I’ve never actually done anything intern-y in my life, I don't even know how to make coffee because I don't drink it and that one time I tried to make it for May she made me promise to never put her through that again.” 

_ “So?”  _

“So interns get coffee,” Peter said as he inched out of his jeans, the dried blood creating a kind of glue between the fabric and his skin. 

_ “You have never gotten coffee,”  _ Karen informed him as though that wasn't partially what he was freaking out about. 

“Exactly,” Peter muttered, gently easing his clothing off was causing him too much pain, so he tore the jeans away from the wound in a sharp motion that made stars blink in and out of existence in his line of vision as darkness threatened at the edges. 

He didn't remember slipping off the side of the tub, but just as he thought he was going to lose the fight to stay awake, the fuzziness disappeared from his vision and he was blinking tiredly on the bathroom floor with his leg oozing fresh blood. 

_ “Peter? Peter!”  _

“Ugh,” he groaned, “s’ok, ‘m fine.” 

_ “I really think it’s about time we sought more professional help,”  _ Karen suggested. 

“No, no, it’s all good,” Peter said as he started to feel less dizzy from the agony, “besides, I was telling you stuff, remember?” 

_ “Indeed, would you like to continue?”  _

“Yeah, uh, so, the coffee thing,” Peter mumbled as he gently nudged his jeans off properly, trying to avoid looking too closely at the blood on his leg as he did so, “well, it’s just that I’ve never done one of the most simple things an intern does, and Mr. Stark was dropping hints about me being an intern, so obviously I need to fill that role at the Charity Gala, but how can I when I don't know what’s expected of me?” 

_ “Maybe you’re meant to just go and have a good time?”  _ Karen suggested. 

“No, no it’s not that,” Peter was sure, “he mentioned interning a few times, it was very clear that he’s wanting me to step up and actually fill that role.” 

_ “Why don't you ask him?”  _

“What? No way!” Peter said quickly, “I absolutely can't do that.” 

_ “Why not?”  _

“You wouldn't get it,” Peter muttered and ripped the mask off in one smooth action, feeling slightly guilty about cutting off his closest confidant so ruthlessly. 

He tried to ignore the turmoil in his mind and instead focused his attention on the gash on his leg. He carefully pulled himself back up onto the side of the tub and swung around so that he could clean the wound off in the bath. He used the showerhead and rinsed it on the gentlest pressure setting, rubbing at the skin around the laceration to clear it of the dried and congealing blood. 

“What the-” 

For some reason he had expected a long swipe, maybe from upper thigh to his knee, he had not expected the sight he was met with. The wound was the length of his pointer finger, and it was  _ wide.  _ It was almost like someone had cut an oval into his flesh rather than swiping him with a knife.

It needed stitches. 

It probably needed a professional, but Peter was an amateur with a complex against disturbing others and a strong need to avoid Mr. Stark until the Gala, so he was going to have to deal with it himself. How much blood had he lost? How long did he have until this wound became life-threatening? He needed to get his shit together and sort it out. 

Once he had finished rinsing the laceration, he wrapped one of May’s nice yellow towels around it tightly, to try and stem the flow of the blood - a large part of him felt guilty, he was going to have to throw it away and listen to her confused rambles as she wondered what had happened to it. 

“Come on, Peter,” he muttered to himself, “you can do this.”

He forced himself to stand, ignoring how that simple, painful movement made a sudden red appear on the otherwise pristine towel. 

“Gotta close it up,” he muttered as he opened the mirrored cabinet and began to rake through for the first aid kit he knew was hidden in there, various things fell as he searched and clattered into the sink making him glad that he was home alone. 

When he opened the first aid kit, he rummaged until he found the thing he had been looking for; a pack of Steri-Strips. He opened them and read through the information leaflet. 

**Only use on shallow, clean, uninfected wounds.** **  
** **Do not use where bleeding is unmanageable or significant.** ****  
**Do not use on hairy, oily areas, joints, the face.** **  
** **Seek medical attention if the wound was a human or animal bite.**

Well, that was a lot of situations in which they were unsuitable and Peter was fairly sure his wound wasn't shallow and he would have said the bleeding was erring on the unmanageable side, but what else could he do? He didn't have any other option, he would have to  _ try. _

So he did, he carefully unwound the towel and looked at the nauseating wound on his thigh. He needed to align the edges and hold them in place with the Steri-Strips. It sounded simple… but it was going to hurt. Gritting his teeth, he started to get to work. Small whimpers and whines of pain would escape every now and then as he struggled not to lose himself to the lightheaded feeling that kept coming with the pain. 

The Steri-Strips didn't work as well as Peter had hoped, the edges of the wound weren't exactly lining up and there were parts of the sticky side that were attached to the open part of the wound, which he was sure wasn't meant to happen. But, it was an improvement, and that was all he could ask for. 

He stuck one of the sterile dressings over the top and used the first aid scissors to cut a strip off the towel - he was going to bin it anyways - which he then tied tightly around the affected area to create enough pressure to stop the bleeding. 

“Now to clean up,” he muttered with a slightly delirious laugh that he was putting down to the blood loss. 

Sitting there, with his leg wound cared for - to his best ability - and his throbbing ribs, Peter realised just how tired he was. He still needed to clean up the mess he’d created and research what Mr. Stark would be expecting of him at the Gala. 

He pulled on his mask tiredly, “Karen?” 

_ “Yes, Peter?”  _

“I’m sorry.” 

_ “I forgive you, what can I do for you?”  _

“Can you text Mr. Stark for me and say: sorry for running off like that, don't worry I’ll be at the Gala tomorrow, and I’ll be fully prepared.” 

_ “Message sent.”  _

“Thanks, Karen,” Peter said and laid his head back, fighting the urge to fall into a deep, comforting sleep. He still had so much to do… 

\----

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Peter was so nervous he was almost crawling about on the ceiling.

“Oh, Honey, relax would you,” May said with a fond eye roll as she rewatched the tie tutorial that she’d saved after they’d both been mystified by the snakelike fabric on the night of Homecoming. 

“Relax?” Peter asked, his voice a few octaves too high, “May, I can’t just  _ relax _ , this is the Stark Charity Gala and I am a Stark Intern.” 

“So?” May asked, motioning for him to come closer so she could do up the tie after her third run through of the video. 

“So, I need to be the best intern that has ever been to one of these things, if it gets out that I’m Mr. Stark’s personal intern and I don’t do a good enough job, then my actions will impact negatively on Mr. Stark and I can’t have that!” 

“You need to calm down, Pete,” May said with a laugh, “you’re getting too in your head about this, why don't you just try to have a good time? And maybe go fix your hair.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled running a hand through his curls, “hair. I can do that.” 

“Just don't use as much gel as you did last time, alright?” May said, “the curls suit you, the greasy look does not.” 

“Oh ha ha,” Peter mumbled as he made his way out of the living room, pain echoing in every step, but May couldn't know. 

She couldn't know about the thirty dressings he had gone through in the last two days as his leg refused to heal properly, despite his normally impressive healing abilities. She couldn't know about the weird yellowish-green discharge that was escaping constantly or the strange smell he had begun to notice. She couldn't even know about the smattering of dark bruises that spanned across half his ribs and made breathing difficult. 

“Don’t take too long, Peter,” May called after him, “Happy will be here soon and I want to take some pictures of you before you leave.”

Peter looked at himself in the mirror, taking in his ghostly pallor and the bags beneath his eyes, how had he avoided causing May suspicion? He looked terrible, or maybe that was his enhanced sight picking up on things normal people couldn't see. 

He coated his fingers in a light amount of gel and ran them through his hair, enough to style it but not so much that it looked greasy, as May would say. 

“Alright, I’m ready!” Peter declared, walking back into the room to be met with the flash of a camera, “woah! May!” 

“You look so cute!” she said in response. 

“I am not  _ cute!”  _ Peter insisted, “I- I’m- I am the most-” 

“Face it, you’re the cutest,” May said pinching his cheeks gently, before pulling him into a hug that squeezed his ribs painfully, “alright, now, have a good night, alright?” 

“You sure you don't want to come?” Peter asked. 

“Oh no,” May said with a laugh, “I have a bottle of red and a handful of romcoms with my name on them.” 

“Alright,” Peter said, “have a good night.”

“You too, and if you’re staying at the tower, send me a text, ok?” May asked, “I don't want to spend the night worrying about where you are.” 

“You got it!” Peter said with false cheer, he doubted that Mr. Stark would want him to stay over, especially as he hadn't replied to the man since that message while he’d been cleaning his wound up. 

Peter made his way downstairs to see the familiar sleek black car parked by the curb, without hesitating he wandered over to the back door and slipped inside. 

“Hey, Happy!”

Happy grunted in greeting and fixed Peter with a piercing stare through the rearview mirror. 

“Is uh, is everything ok?” Peter wondered nervously.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Happy said, “Tony says you’ve been avoiding his messages.”

“My phone died,” Peter lied. 

“You couldn't charge it?” 

“My charger is broken.”

“You couldn't get a new one?” 

“We’re not all billionaires,” Peter mumbled.

“You could have asked Tony, he would have replaced it in a heartbeat.” 

“How?” Peter asked, “my phone was dead.” 

“Alright, fine, keep your secrets,” Happy grumbled, “just… be careful alright, Kid? Tony is really worried about you and I thought he was maybe overreacting because I know how he can be sometimes, but now I’m beginning to think something might be wrong.” 

“There’s nothing wrong.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” Happy asked, ignoring Peter’s lie. 

“Uh actually, can we go to a Drive-Thru Starbucks on the way?” 

“You… want coffee?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Peter mumbled. 

“Alright, sure,” Happy said, “the first time you’ve actually asked for something so I’m not going to say no.” 

Was it really? 

The server manning the Drive-Thru window looked very confused when Happy pulled up and requested an Americano and a Hot Chocolate, Peter could see her glancing between the two of them, obviously wondering who Peter was and why he was being chauffeured around. 

Maybe she would make up a story for her friends to laugh about, or maybe she was tired and nearing the end of her shift and didn't really care. Either way, Peter slunk back into the seat and looked the other way until Happy handed him the two drinks he had requested. 

“So, what’s with the drinks Kid?” Happy asked. 

“I don't know how to make coffee,” Peter admitted as though that was an appropriate answer. 

“Alright,” Happy said and he sighed deeply, “do you… do you normally drink coffee?” 

“What? No, this stuff could kill me,” Peter said, “ever since becoming Spider-Man, I have bad reactions to caffeine.”

“Bad reactions?” Happy asked, his eyes narrowing at Peter through the mirror. 

“Oh yeah, you know; palpitations, heart arrhythmias, rashes, jitters, headaches, projectile vomiting, occasional hallucinations, collapsing episodes, cra-”

“So it’s bad?” Happy interrupted. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Peter agreed. 

“So…” Happy trailed off, looking seconds away from pulling over so that he could tear the coffee from Peter’s hands and throw it, “why exactly did we get you a coffee?”

“Oh, this isn't for me.”

“Peter, Kid, come on, you’ve got to give a little here,” Happy muttered, “why did we get a coffee if it’s not for you and you can't even drink the damn stuff?” 

“It’s for Mr. Stark,” Peter said as though that should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

“And pray tell, why are you getting a coffee for Mr. Stark before the Charity Gala?” 

“Because I’m an intern.”

“Of course,” Happy muttered, looking about ready to drive them off the bridge they were currently crossing, “why did I even need to ask?”

The divider slowly raised between them as Happy muttered his statements of disbelief under his breath. 

\-----

“There he is!” Mr. Stark said cheerfully as Peter walked into the room, Americano in hand, “I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up.”

“I promised I would,” Peter said, despite Mr. Stark’s words he could see the worry in the older man’s eyes, “oh uh, here, I brought you coffee.”

“Coffee?” Mr. Stark asked, taking the drink from Peter and looking at it in confusion, “you brought me a coffee?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I hope it’s alright.”

The worry only seemed to intensify rather than lessening, was Mr. Stark that concerned about Peter messing up in public? If so, why should he invite him? 

“Thanks, Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said, taking a polite sip from the cup, “anyway, why don't I introduce you to some people.”

“Sounds good, but maybe I could go to the toilet first?” Peter asked, “it was a long drive and I may have had a hot chocolate.” 

“Great, a sugar hyped kid,” Mr. Stark joked, “go on then, scram, you don't need my permission.”

Things seemed to be going smoothly enough until Peter walked out of the bathroom to find his Spidey-Sense thrumming away with a sense of urgency. Just as he started to look for the source of danger, a hand fisted into the fabric at the back of his neck and he was tugged to the side harshly. 

“Where have you been?” a man asked angrily, “and what are you doing out here without even a tray of drinks?” 

“I uh-”

“Shut up!” the man snapped, “I don't know who your daddy is or whose ass he had to kiss to get you this job but if you’re going to work tonight I need professionalism.” 

“I’m not-”

“I said ‘shut up’!” the man shouted once more, giving Peter a little shake to further drive his demand home. Peter was surprised to find himself slightly afraid, and the shake had hurt his ribs and pushed a little too much pressure down his sore leg. 

“Please, Sir,” Peter begged, “I’m not working.”

“Oh you absolutely are,” the man snapped, “you think you can sneak through here and meet Iron Man?” 

“I didn't-” 

“I have half a mind to kick you out into the gutter,” the man continued, “you are a disappointment to all of us in the service industry, you are meant to remain professional at all times, which doesn't mean fishing around for secrets and autographs.” 

“I wasn't!” 

“Liar!” 

The man tightened his grip and started marching Peter forward as though he was a disobedient child. 

“Sir, listen, please,” Peter pleaded, “Mr. Stark is waiting for me.” 

The man froze, his grip tightening momentarily, and Peter’s Spidey-Sense blared louder. 

“You disturbed Tony Stark?” 

“No! No, no, no!” Peter insisted, “I came here with him, I’m his intern.”

“That’s a lie,” the man said, “Stark Industries never brings interns to these events, now come with me or I’m going to end up kicking you out on your ass and blacklisting you from ever working an event in New York ever again.” 

“You can’t make me do anything,” Peter grumbled, trying to twist out of the man’s hold but being restricted by the pain in his leg and side, he wasn't going to be able to free himself, “you have to let me go?”

“Or what?” the man asked with a sneer in his voice, “what are you going to do about it?” 

“Him? Probably nothing, he’s far too polite for his own good, but me? That’s another story entirely,” Peter felt the grip loosen in a second and he almost crashed to the floor from the relief of it, only for Happy to grab his elbow and stabilise him. 

“Thanks, Happy,” Peter whispered, knowing the man would hear him. 

“You’re Tony Stark’s security,” the man who had grabbed Peter stated with a dumb expression on his face. 

“Yes, and you were manhandling one of the people I am here to protect,” Happy said seriously, Peter had often wondered how Happy - with his tendency to get overstressed and his annoyance at most living things - had become the Head of Security at Stark Industries, but now, looking at him confronting the man, he had no doubts that Happy deserved that title. 

“I wasn't- manhandling?” the guy asked, “that’s a bit… harsh, wouldn't you say?” 

“I call it as it is,” Happy said, “care to explain?” 

“I thought the kid was one of my waiters.”

“Did you recognise him?” Happy asked. 

“Well, no, but there are a lot of them, it’s difficult to know them all,” the man said. 

“That’s dangerous,” Happy said, “it’s fortunate for you that I personally run background checks on everyone working this function, but if you’re not even able to recognise a stranger among your employees then I feel like you won’t have a future organising events for Stark Industries.” 

“Wait, no, you can't do that!” the man insisted, “this is my biggest job of the year.” 

“It’s a shame you care so little about it then, imagine not caring enough to learn your employees’ names?” 

“It was a misunderstanding!” 

“Peter, did you try to tell this man you weren't a waiter”? Happy asked patiently. 

“I uh said that I’m an intern and that Mr. Stark was waiting for me,” Peter admitted, feeling a little guilty for the ashen look that came over the man’s face when he realised that Peter had been telling the truth, after all, how else would the head of security know Peter’s name? 

“Mr. Stark is in fact waiting for you,” a familiar voice broke in, “and he’s not a patient man, what is going on here?” 

The man now looked positively grey as he tried to look anywhere but at the confused and impatient billionaire before him, Peter however noticed the way Mr. Stark’s eyes narrowed in on the crumpled fabric by Peter’s neck and the sheen of panicked sweat on his forehead. 

His mentor looked questioningly at Happy, “well?”

“This is Bernard Kyting,” Happy said, and Peter was sure in that moment that Happy knew absolutely everyone in the room’s name and face, “he is the owner of the company that organised this Gala, he is also the man that just manhandled Peter and attempted to kidnap him.” 

“Kidnapping? What no!” 

“Uh, Happy, he wasn't going to kidnap me,” Peter said hesitantly. 

“Are you sure?” Happy asked seriously, “because we should operate on the worst-case scenario and him trying to force you to go somewhere against your will without listening to you say you’re an intern and that Tony was waiting for you sounds bad to me.” 

“It would probably sound bad to the police too,” Mr. Stark agreed thoughtfully. 

“You’re not serious!” Bernard gasped. 

“I’m deadly serious when it comes to Peter’s safety,” Mr. Stark said. 

“Mr. Stark, I really don't think-”

“Hush Peter, we’re handling this,” Mr. Stark said, “actually, don’t hush, Happy will handle this and I am going to show you off to all the stuffy businessmen here, let’s make them all insecure as a twelve-year-old shows them up.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m fifteen,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly, now come on.” 

Maybe it was the anxiety that had been festering in his stomach since he’d been invited to the Gala, or maybe it was the stress of almost being roped into working as a waiter for a high-end Gala, or maybe it was even the blood loss he’d recently suffered… maybe the reason didn't matter, because it was kind of irrelevant. 

The important thing was that Peter suddenly found himself falling forward. 

He felt hands grab at him to try and stop him from crashing against the ground, but they caught him exactly where his ribs were sore and Peter  _ screamed  _ and everything flashed a brilliant, agonising white before the darkness suddenly crept in. 

\------

When Peter woke up he was partially surprised that he had actually passed out and partially relieved that he had passed out. He had managed to completely avoid the stress of pretending to know how to act as an intern. 

He tried to sit up, only to gasp and fall back against the pillows as his ribs announced their displeasure at the sudden movement, “oh,” he murmured under his breath as he tried to catch what little of it was left thanks to the pain. 

“I wouldn't recommend that,” a smooth voice said from beside him, Peter turned his head to see Mr. Stark sitting there, looking over his tablet at him.

“Hey,” Peter mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact. 

“You have three fractured ribs,” Mr. Stark informed him casually, “which wouldn't normally concern me too much because I get it, it kinda comes with the job, no matter how good you are, you usually end up a little banged up.”

Peter nodded solemnly, not wanting to speak up because he got the impression that Mr. Stark was nowhere near finished. 

“However, imagine my surprise when I lift your unconscious body up off the floor and find myself with a patch of blood on my new grey suit,” Peter winced, yeah, there it was, “so of course, there’s complete pandemonium, we think there’s an assassin in the Gala, we lock the place down and organise S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medics to attend. The highest of all security is on alert and preparing to raid the building, only for us to find that you have a stab wound, that looks to be a few days old on your leg.” 

“Oh, that,” Peter mumbled. 

“Oh that, yes that,” Mr. Stark snapped, “what the hell were you thinking not telling me about that?”

“It happened after I left the other day,” Peter admitted, “and I thought I’d managed to deal with it myself.” 

“You thought-” Mr. Stark broke off and sighed, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “do you realise how irresponsible that was?” 

“It was fine,” Peter mumbled. 

“Fine?” Mr. Stark questioned, his voice rising an octave from the shock of hearing such a thing. 

“I have healing powers,” Peter said. 

“Kid, you’re still human, you still need appropriate medical care and time to recuperate after getting hurt,” Mr. Stark said gently, “you’re not a machine, no one expects you to be able to keep going without looking after yourself.” 

“I guess,” Peter whispered. 

“And you had no idea what you were doing, did you?” Mr. Stark asked although it seemed like he already knew, “those Steri-Strips were totally inappropriate for that wound.”

“I know,” Peter said, looking down, “I just didn't have anything else.” 

“You had your phone.” 

Peter cast him a confused look, “my phone? They don't like blood or moisture that much.” 

“To… call me,” Mr. Stark said slowly, looking at Peter with a strange mix of disappointment and amusement, “you’re a smart kid, but would you really think to put your phone on a bloody wound before using it to call me.” 

“Uh, not usually,” Peter said, “but this kinda happened after I left yours the other day.”

“Ah,” Mr. Stark murmured, seemingly understanding something that Peter hadn't yet explained. 

“What?” Peter asked, feeling unnerved by the older man’s sudden understanding. 

“I freaked you out with all that talk of colleges and coming to work for Stark Industries,” Mr. Stark said quietly. 

“What? No!” Peter almost shouted, jerking upright in the bed despite the pain in his ribs that threatened his ability to breathe, “Mr. Stark, that’s not at all what happened.” 

“No?” Mr. Stark asked, arching an eyebrow curiously. 

“No, of course not,” Peter mumbled, “I mean, yeah, I wasn't ready to think about that sort of thing, but it would be an honour to work for you in the future, but Mr. Stark, I realised that I’m a really bad intern.” 

“What- Kid, no,” Mr. Stark said quickly.

“I am!” Peter argued, “I don’t know how to make coffee, I don't know how to sort paperwork, I don't know what else interns actually do! There’s no way you can say I’m good at it when I don't even understand my own job description. You invited me to the Charity Gala as your intern and I freaked out because I didn't want to embarrass you, I wanted to make a good impression.”

“Kid, I invited you to the Gala as you,” Mr. Stark said, “we both know the internship is a fake formality to keep your alter ego a secret and give you a boost in your college applications.” 

“So, you’re not mad that I don't know how to make coffee?” 

“I never was,” Mr. Stark said, “wait… is this why you brought me an Americano earlier?” 

Peter nodded guiltily, “yeah…” 

“Kid, you absolutely did  _ not  _ have to do that, although I must admit since I’m staying away from all the fun stuff now, it was rather nice to have,” Mr. Stark said, “I wanted you there so you could have a good time and so that I could brag about how amazing you are.” 

Peter couldn't stop the warmth that spread over his cheeks and he ducked his head.

“I just didn't want to be a disappointment,” Peter mumbled. 

“Kiddo, you could never,” Mr. Stark sounded as though he had never been more sure about anything, “I’m slightly upset that you didn't come to me about this wound, but I get that your teenage brain works in mysterious mystery ways.”

“I tried my best with it,” Peter mumbled. 

“It’s infected.” 

“I didn't say my best was good,” Peter continued, he pulled the blankets to the side to look at the wound on his leg only to find that the bloody, yellowing dressing he had last seen was gone and had been replaced by a bright white one with only a tiny amount od seepage. “You fixed it.”

“Well, my doctor did,” Mr. Stark corrected, “I called him in and we gave you some of Cap’s meds to keep you a little out of it while we cleaned it up and you’re now the proud owner of some stitches.”

“Oh cool,” Peter mumbled. 

“Stitches are cool?” Mr. Stark asked with a raised brow, perhaps he was questioning Peter’s sanity. 

“No, I got Captain America’s drugs!” Peter said with a smirk, “he always tells us not to do drugs in those PSAs so this is a wonderful twist of medicated irony.” 

“Yeah, I think they’re still in your system a little,” Mr. Stark muttered, “so since you’re still a little dopey, I think now would be a good time to remind you that you have three fractured ribs and you’re not allowed to go out as Spider-Man until they’re fully mended.” 

“Wait… what?” Peter protested, “why?” 

“Swinging will put a strain on them and cause you pain meaning you could flinch and fall, or you could receive another blow and worsen the damage,” Mr. Stark said, “come on, Underoos, you were just bragging about your healing powers, it won’t be forever.” 

“But…” Peter hesitated. 

“But what?” 

“If I can’t be Spider-Man will I still be allowed to come to the workshop?” Peter asked and he focused his attention on fiddling with the sheets rather than facing the look he knew Mr. Stark would cast towards him. 

He wasn't ready for the ‘why would you come to the workshop if you’re not needing upgrades?’ response, the one that he knew in his head he was about to receive.

“Kid, what?” Mr. Stark responded instead, “look at me, Peter.”

Peter blinked back the tears that were building in his eyes, trying his best not to appear childish and weak before the man who had been his hero since he was a child. 

“Pete, c’mon Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said gently, and Peter found himself unable to avoid him any longer, “I don’t know why you have this idea that I only care about Spider-Man, because you are always going to be my number one priority.”

“But-”

“Uh uh,” Mr. Stark cut him off, “no, you need to listen to this. I’m Tony Stark, do you really think I would have a fifteen-year-old kid running around my home if I didn't want him there? Do you think I’d be texting his Aunt and arranging transport for him when she’s at work? Would I have a ridiculous amount of food and sweet things in my kitchen? Would I brag about him to my colleagues and competitors?” 

“But we spend so much time designing stuff for Spider-Man?”

“Because  _ you  _ are Spider-Man and no matter how much I wish you had a safer hobby, I know that you won’t quit helping people just to stop the greying of my hair and the wrinkles that are forming. So instead of sitting here panicking about you getting brutally killed, I help you develop things that will ensure your safety - which you then bypass by trying to teat that wound by yourself.”

“Oh,” Peter mumbled, how had he gotten it so wrong? “I’m sorry.”

“Kid, don't apologise,” Mr. stark said, “listen, I’m the one who’s sorry for making you think that I only cared about Spidey, I know I’m as Pepper would say “emotionally constipated” but I really do care about you and your dorky interests.”

Peter couldn't help but smile, “well, in that case, I’m sorry for freaking out about the intern thing, and for hiding my injuries from you.” 

“Those are apologies I can accept,” Mr. Stark said with a smile, “although, I wouldn't be opposed to you turning up with coffee more, especially when we both know Happy’s the one paying for it, just… not Starbucks, ok? Try some smaller places, support local businesses and all that jazz.” 

“MJ would love that you said that,” Peter mumbled. 

“Yeah, yeah, come on then,” Mr. Stark said, his knees cracking as he stood and stretched.

“Come on?” Peter repeated, “where are we going?” 

“Someone has to explain all of this to your aunt and I’m not taking the blow on my own,” Mr.Stark said. 

“You can’t throw me under the bus,” Peter protested, “I’m injured.”

“Yeah, and I will be too if you’re not there to soften the blow.” 

Peter grumbled under his breath as he clambered out of the comfortable bed, May was going to be so pissed at him, in fact, he’d be lucky if he lived to see his Spidey-Suit ever again. Maybe he should write a will, did he had time for that? 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Mr. Stark moving to his side to support his weight so that he didn't step too heavily on his sore leg. 

“You don’t have to help me,” Peter said, “I’ve been walking on it since I hurt it.”

“Yeah and look how that ended up,” Mr. Stark muttered, “anyways, this is as much for me as it is for you. May won’t kill me if she thinks I’m holding you up.”

“You’re using me!” Peter protested. 

“Now he gets it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for making it to the end! I hope you enjoyed!! Why not leave a comment or kudos if you have a moment and thank you again my lovelies!! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @[ephemeralstark](https://ephemeralstark.tumblr.com/) <3333


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